Thoroughly Kissed (5 page)

“Committees that take the recommendation of the department heads very seriously.” He leaned toward her. “You're a fraud,
Professor
Lost. You make up your research and then go on the History Channel pretending to be a real historian.”

“I am the most real historian you'll ever have in this department,” she snapped. “I know more about primary research than all of your colleagues put together.”

“Do you?” he asked, his voice even softer. Somehow it sounded more menacing that way.

She swallowed, wishing she could take back the words. Of course she had done more primary research than the rest of them. She had lived in that time period. She
knew
what she had written was fact. The rest of them were guessing.

“Yes,” she said, “I do.”

“Then why don't you cite more primary sources in your book?”

“I've cited enough for every other scholar in the world, Professor Found. England in the early Middle Ages is not your time period. Why don't you trust the people who specialize in the area?”

He smiled then, and the beauty of the expression caught her even though she wanted to slap him. “I do specialize in the area, Professor Lost.”

“Not according to your write up in all the college guidelines,” she said, then flushed. She hadn't wanted him to know that she was checking up on him.

He raised his eyebrows as if the comment amused him. “Those were written when I was hired. For the last five years, I've changed specialties. I just came from England. I've been studying the Dark Ages.”

“Oh,” she said. “So you want to get rid of me because I've got more credentials in the field you aspire to. I'm teaching the classes you want to teach.”

“No, Professor,” he said. “I'm telling you this so that you know that I know what you think you know.”

She blinked. She wasn't sure what he had just said. “Excuse me?”

“You've made everything up.” He picked her book off his desk. “This entire volume is a work of fiction. It's well written, it's interesting. It's easy to see why the literati embraced the whole thing, and it's pretty with all those color photographs. It's a very nice coffee table book. But just because the book critic in the
New
Yorker
says you can write doesn't mean you can produce a good work of historical scholarship.”

“You're jealous,” she said.

“No.” He slapped the book on his desk. “I don't want a fraud in my department.”

“I'm not a fraud,” she said.

“Ms. Lost—”

“Professor Lost,” she snarled.

“—You are the worst kind of fraud. You are attractive, articulate, and intelligent. You tell a coherent and plausible story. But you are lazy and inept and ultimately you will embarrass this department. I want you out of here before you do that.”

“You can't fire me,” she said. “I was hired with Mort's highest recommendation. I'll tell the academic review board that you're jealous and you want to clear me out of here because I teach the very subjects you believe you should teach.”

“And I'll show them how poor your documentation is.” His eyes narrowed. “When I get through with you, you won't be able to get a job at any reputable campus anywhere.”

A surge of panic rose inside her and she fought to keep it from showing on her face. She wasn't suited to anything else. She was awful at all the other jobs she had tried. Teaching was her calling, and writing books about her past was the best thing she could do.

This good-looking pompous ass was threatening more than he knew. He was threatening her very survival. Her very future.

She clenched her fists, struggling to control herself. The office felt hot and stuffy. The furniture was closing in on her. If only she had room to breathe—

This time she felt the little puff of energy leave her before she saw the bright light. There was a thunderous clap that echoed around her, and she saw stars for a moment. When her vision cleared, she was standing in an empty room—with Michael Found.

He staggered forward as if he had been leaning his weight on something and it was now gone. His face was pale.

“What was that?”

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She blinked, unable to think of a response. Except that she needed to reverse the spell.

She was full blown and out of control and she had to get out of here very, very fast.

The door opened and Helen looked in. Her face was pale. “Um, Michael,” she said, “how did all your furniture get into my office?”

He looked at Emma, whose mouth was still open. At least she wasn't blushing. Her heart was pounding and she had to mutter the reverse order, but she didn't want to do it in front of them. Then they'd know she caused all of this.

“Michael?” Helen asked. “What's happening?”

“I have no idea.” His voice sounded calm, but his right hand shook. He clenched his fist. “I was telling Professor Lost—”

“Stop!” she said before she thought the better of it. She didn't want Helen to hear about that humiliating conversation. She didn't want Helen to hear anything.

Michael Found made a choking noise and for a brief, terrifying moment, Emma thought she had taken his voice away. Then he cleared his throat, and took a step toward the door.

“Helen?”

Emma looked at Helen, ever so slowly. Helen was no longer moving. She was frozen in position, and her skin was gray. Well, not exactly gray. It looked like it was made of stone.

She had become a statue.

“Oh, no,” Emma muttered softly.

Professor Found approached the department secretary as if he thought what she had was catching. When he reached her, he touched her arm.

“She's cold,” he said.

His back was to Emma. She whispered the “reverse” word ever so softly and twirled her hand.

The stone around Helen cracked and fell to the floor, then vanished.

“Michael?” Helen said. “You didn't answer me.” She leaned back slightly. “And don't sneak up on me like that.”

“I didn't sneak up,” he said. “You turned to—ah, hell.”

He looked at Emma, who shrugged.

“To what?” Helen asked.

“Don't you remember?” he asked.

“I remember asking you a question you have yet to answer. What's going on?”

“I wish I knew.” He frowned at Emma. She didn't have to work at looking panicked. She was barely breathing, afraid of doing anything, thinking anything. She had to get out of here and get some help.

“One minute I was having a discussion with Professor Lost, the next thing I know, my furniture is gone.”

He turned back to Helen who peered into the room. Emma understood her confusion. There weren't even any dust bunnies in here—and considering how many books had lined the floor, there should have been.

Helen's gaze met Emma's and then she looked away. Emma used that moment to try the reverse spell again, but it didn't work.

“Do you know what's happening, Professor Lost?” Michael asked.

Emma clenched her fists and pushed past him. “I'm sorry. I have to leave.”

“But we're not done…”

“Oh, yes, we are. You're having a weird furniture problem. We can resume this discussion some other time.” Emma slid past Helen. “Sorry,” she said softly.

Helen didn't seem to have a response. Emma almost ran down the hall, her heels preventing her from moving too fast. When she reached Helen's office, she had to slow down to make her way past the piles of furniture.

It was a neat spell, more or less. The furniture had actually arranged itself in its proper positions—the bookshelves against the wall, the reading chair in a corner with its footstool in the proper place—but there wasn't enough room for everything, and so the space was crammed.

Emma was lucky that the spell had worked as it had, otherwise Helen could have been crushed under a load of ergonomically designed furniture.

The thought made Emma shudder. It could have been so much worse.

Although it was bad enough. It would take a lot of work to get the furniture moved back to Michael Found's office. She wished she could spell it there, but she knew now that wasn't possible.

She pushed open the stairway door, paused because she felt light-headed, and went down to her office, hoping she wouldn't see anyone else. The last thing she needed was another magical accident.

Things were bad enough.

***

Michael still stood in the middle of his office. With a clap of thunder, the furniture had magically reappeared, almost as if someone had commanded it to do so. Everything was in its place. Even the plants draped as they had before. The same books were on top of his reading stack, and Emma Lost's disgraceful tome was in the spot where he had slammed it on his desk.

Helen had taken one look at the restored furniture, shaken her head, and hurried away from him, as if he had caused it.

He wasn't sure what had caused it. Or if anything had really happened. He was still vaguely jet-lagged, and he had been very angry at Emma Lost. The woman was as infuriating as she was beautiful.

And she seemed to firmly believe that she hadn't done anything wrong.

He walked back to his desk and touched its wood surface. It felt the same. He frowned, trying to remember the exact sequence of events. Had he walked through the space where the desk should have been? Or had he walked around it as though it were still there?

Had someone played a trick on him, knowing that he was writing a book on magic? It wouldn't surprise him. Students were endlessly creative. And if David Copperfield could make the Empire State Building disappear then a talented student could make Michael believe that his office furniture had vanished.

There had been that flash of light, and it had affected his eyesight for a moment. Was that some sort of special effect that made it seem as if his furniture was gone?

That would certainly explain why Helen had come into his office. The students had probably projected the images of his furniture in her office, making it seem as if the furniture had transferred.

Brilliant. He would have to search for the source of it in a moment.

Even though that didn't explain why Helen's skin had been so cold, why she had looked as if she had been made out of stone.

He had never really touched her before. Maybe her skin was naturally cold. Maybe he had only thought she had looked frozen in stone.

Maybe she was in on it.

He shook his head. Helen wasn't really one for practical jokes. Neither, it seemed, was Emma Lost. She had bolted from his office like a frightened child.

He ran a hand through his hair. He supposed he owed her an apology—for the weirdness, not for saying she was incompetent. He would have to be clear about that. Which, of course, would continue the argument.

But he had to let her know where he stood. This was his department now, and her presence was tainting it. It would be unethical for him to keep her on board, knowing how bad her research was. It would be like the
Washington
Post
keeping on that woman who had made up the newspaper articles that had won her the Pulitzer Prize. Yes, the work
seemed
credible, but it wasn't. And if Emma Lost got caught, it would reflect badly on the school, the department, and him.

He put a hand on his desk just to make sure it was there. It was. It felt smooth and warm to the touch, just as it always had. Now that magic trick had seemed amazingly real. Just like Emma Lost's research. For most people, all she needed was to be convincing, but Michael was a man who liked proof. A man who understood reason, and who believed in accuracy above all else.

She may have thought she found a sinecure here at the University of Wisconsin, but she was about to learn that she was wrong.

***

Emma opened the door to her office and slipped inside. She put a hand to her forehead. Could this day get any worse? Darnell turning into a lion, being told that her boss was out to get her, and then making his furniture disappear while turning his secretary to stone.

This problem had to be solved, and it had to be solved now. Emma couldn't walk through campus like this. Her magic might spontaneously erupt and then what would happen? The statue of Lincoln might come alive. Or the famous photo of the pink flamingos on Bascom Hill might become a reality—with real flamingos instead of the plastic lawn variety.

Or something worse might happen, something like—turning Michael Found into a toad.

Then Emma shuddered.
She'd
been changed into a toad once and it hadn't been a very pleasant experience. It certainly wasn't something she wished on anyone, not even anyone as irritating as Michael Found.

She stopped in front of the photograph she had put up of Portland, Oregon. The majestic bridges crisscrossed the Columbia River, a beautiful skyscape that she would never have seen in her youth.

Aethelstan was there, with his restaurant, and all his knowledge. If she had control over her magic, she could pop herself there right now.

But she didn't. And that was the problem. She was half afraid to move or even open her mouth. She didn't know what would happen next.

Then her shoulders relaxed. Aethelstan had given her a few other emergency words and the most important, he had said, was the one that took her to the Fates.

The Fates were the women who governed the rules of magic for Emma's people. The Fates settled all disputes, and governed as a ruling tribunal, holding legislative and judicial powers in their beautiful hands. Emma hadn't given them much thought, since she didn't plan to come into her magic for another twenty years. But the Fates would be the best ones for her to see. They would understand that something had gone wrong—that Emma's coma had interfered with the natural flow of things—and they would repair this damage.